


One More (Stupid) Love Song

by SandraMG



Category: The Voice RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandraMG/pseuds/SandraMG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between season one and season two of The Voice. Blake has been on tour for the last four months, and can't shake the feeling that his entire life is falling apart. When he gets back to L.A., he finds out that a certain rock star has been trying to get ahold of him ever since he left, and now he's got a lot on his mind; aka how the Maroon 5 song "Payphone" was written with Blake in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More (Stupid) Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There are several references to Miranda Lambert and Blake's marriage, and while I hate including real-life spouses in RPF, the story did call for it. I apologize if anyone is offended by anything implied within the story. 
> 
> Although this is RPF, it is undoubtedly fiction - I am playing with the people as they exist within my head. I mean no disrespect or harm.
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

The Los Angeles air hit Blake like a ton of bricks, so smoky and seedy compared to home. It always seemed like a descent straight into hell, especially considering the constant ass kissing and pussyfooting that was it’s own language in a city dominated by power players and wannabes. Blake didn’t mind it so much anymore; let’s face it, he was paid an obscene amount of money just to make people feel good. Blake was a family friendly hooker, and he was willing to do anything to keep his career going. He still couldn’t help but speak his mind – his publicist had taken to monitoring his Twitter account on a daily basis. Blake played it off; it wasn’t doing any real harm. At least he wasn’t shooting up in some club bathroom and passing out in a gutter every night. One time, he might have. But that wasn’t him anymore.

So with all of that in mind, Blake was making his way back into Hell after a long summer of touring and recording and drinking, ready to start the second season of The Voice. He was excited, if only to try and one-up Adam for winning last year. Jackass. He hadn’t spoken to any of his fellow judges since the last series had ended; they’d all been so busy with different projects, there hadn’t been time or reason to get together. It would be nice to be back on set. Blake especially couldn’t wait to see Adam. The little fucker had called him a few times, but he seemed to have a knack for choosing bad times; Blake had either been onstage, in the recording booth, or having it out with Miranda.

 _Oh god, Miranda._ One blessing about heading back to L.A. had been that things between him and his wife hadn’t been going well. For the moment, they weren’t speaking, which was just as well; both of them had been on their separate tours for months, the distance being too hard to handle, with Miranda constantly convinced that there was someone else. Just thinking about it made Blake’s head pound.

In any case, going back to Hell would be a welcome vacation.

***

After settling into the house NBC had put him up in, Blake didn’t feel like going out, not alone. The house was too big and too empty for him; too sparsely decorated and bare bones, only supposed to last the next six months while the show was filmed. Blake didn’t see the point of buying a place in L.A., since he and Miranda were always on tour. They preferred being in Oklahoma whenever they could. At least, they had preferred it. Blake ran a hand through his curly hair, desperately in need of a cut, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. “Fuck it,” he said to himself, as he wandered into the kitchen to pull out the only substance that was always fully stocked, always there when it was needed.

The whiskey burned as it went down, numbing Blake’s head and heart. One shot was enough. He wasn’t ready to commit to drinking alone; once he did, he’d have bigger problems to worry about than the state of his marriage. Setting the whiskey on the counter, he went out to see his dog, Betty in the back yard, thinking that at least some companionship would help him focus on the weeks to come, even if it was only from his dog.

As the screen door slammed, his phone, discarded on the kitchen counter, began to ring. It rang and rang, its owner completely oblivious to the fact that a certain someone really needed to talk to him.

That certain someone definitely was **not** his wife.

Blake came back in the house a good twenty minutes or so later, having felt content enough to run around with the dog, throwing sticks to her and trying to get some normalcy into his routine. Sliding back the glass door leading from the fenced in yard to his kitchen, he felt around for his phone, worried that one of his managers had been trying to get a hold of him. Blake saw it before he heard it, sitting next to the whiskey bottle, buzzing incessantly, the vibrations causing the glass next to it to shuffle further up the counter. Blake snatched it up, and couldn’t believe it when he saw the caller I.D. He answered,

“Jackass.”

“You, sir, are a hard fucker to get a hold of, you know that right?”

“How long has it been again?”

“It’s been a good five months and you know it, asshole. How’ve you been?”

Blake leaned against the counter, shoving his free hand into his jean pockets. Adam’s voice was a lot like whiskey; brutal and hot, but boy, when you need it, it’s the most refreshing thing in the world. Their friendship was one of the more expected outcomes of doing The Voice, but was by far one of the best. Adam wasn’t a diva, and he didn’t talk shit; he was a lot like Blake, if a bit less…country, Blake supposed. He wasn’t sure what the exact word to describe Adam was. The man deserved an essay.

“Man, I’m glad you’re back in town.  We need to catch up. You know, without all the publicists and managers, and shit around.”

“I’m sure you’ve been busy without me.” Blake teased.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. We’re almost done with the new album, and I wanted to play you something. Are you free tonight? Say around 8?”

            Blake looked through the kitchen door, the virtually empty living room, thought about the empty hallways and empty bedrooms and about just how alone he felt.

            “Make it 7?”

***

            The setting L.A. sun streamed through the windows, creating warm stripes on the hardwood floor. Blake had spent the last two hours unpacking the rest of his stuff, setting his guitar in the living room where he and Adam would likely play Johnny and the Devil duels as long as the alcohol held out. Pulling the drapes shut to cut off the sun’s glare, the doorbell rang at exactly 6:58pm. Blake frowned, because if he knew one thing, it was that Adam was never early. Sure enough, though, there he was, tattooed, scruffy, smiling ear to ear as per usual, clad in his usual black t-shirt and jeans, carrying a guitar case. As Blake stepped aside to let Adam in, he heard the thump of the guitar case before he was almost knocked backwards over the force of Adam’s hug. Blake’s a big guy, but Adam’s no feather. His hug invades every part of him, and is just a little too close for comfort. No sooner as it starts, it is over, Adam pulling back with his wider-than-wide grin, saying, “I missed you man!” They headed into the living room, Blake grabbing the whiskey and two glasses from the kitchen before proceeding to collapse next to Adam on the house-provided leather couch.

            “So how’s life been in the big city?” Blake asked, pouring the drinks and passing one off to Adam.

            “Same old bullshit. Just been busy writing, you know how it is. How was the tour? I tried calling you for five months and every time you were out being Mr. Big Country Superstar of the Decade.” Adam gulped his drink, sinking his whole body into the couch, laying a tattooed arm against its back.

            “Wheeling and dealing, same as usual. People seem to like it when I tell stories now though, especially about you, and Cee Lo and Christina, they eat that shit up.”

            Adam laughed, and asked, “What did you say?”

            Blake shrugged, “Oh you know, that you’re really sexy and Christina has big boobs. Obvious stuff really.” Blake glanced at Adam with a smile, and damn it if the guy wasn’t smiling even _wider_ now, his eyes darting back and forth between Blake and the whiskey in his hand.

“And Miranda?”

Blake’s head snapped up, “What about her?”

Adam’s face dropped. “I just wondered how she’s doing. I saw her a couple of months ago, when she was in town.”

Blake sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to clutch at some part of his brain to see if it was still working. “I’m sorry man. It’s just…I think Miranda wants to take a break for a while.”

“And you don’t?” Adam asked with his eyes fixed on Blake’s.

“I don’t know. Part of me is still in love with her, but then I think…Okay I want to kick my own ass for saying this, but, have you ever felt like you’re being haunted by someone, but you’re not quite sure who?” It was about as clear as Blake could be; he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone out there he was meant for, meant to find, meant to be with. Turning back to Adam, he said, “I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but I know that right now, I’m happy to be in L.A. What about you and Anne?”

Now it was Adam’s turn to cave in on himself. “That bad, huh?” Blake asked.

“Here’s a tip,” Adam smiled sadly. “Never date a model.” It was as though someone had flipped a switch in the room – the two friends sat in a cloud of their own confusion and heartbreak. Adam was even more twitchy than usual, a complete bundle of nerves. One moment he was leaning back, carefree, the next thing Blake knew, Adam had tipped his glass back and swallowed all its contents, banging the glass on the coffee table, and reaching over for his guitar case.

            Blake followed suit, draining his glass, his entire body burning as it went down, subsequently leaving him with a hollow, not quite sated feeling. As he placed the glass next to Adam’s, he saw a guitar come into view, Adam throwing it over his knee and adjusting the strings. With a deep breath, Adam turned to him.

            “Okay, there’s something I need to tell you. Actually, play you, because you did sort of inspire it. Just…look, just listen, and don’t say anything after. I just want you to hear it.”

            Blake was dumbfounded for a second, but nodded, playfully motion-zipping his lips and throwing away the key. With one last smile, Adam started to sing:

_I'm at a payphone trying to call home  
All of my change I spent on you  
Where have the times gone  
Baby it's all wrong, where are the plans we made for two?_

It was some song, definitely Top 40 material, about a payphone  (seriously? Who uses pay phones nowadays?) and trying to get in touch with someone you miss, and something about, “too late to make it” but not being “too late to try” and…

            Oh.

            Prior to this day, the three biggest surprises in Blake’s life had been 1. being cast on The Voice, 2. his surprise 10th birthday party, and actually living to see his thirtieth birthday. Now, though, they’d all been bested. This song and the fact that Adam was singing it for him, _to him,_ with those goddamn eyes staring into his very fucking soul, were now the gold standard, the blue ribbon winner, the fucking mother of all surprises. Blake listened, not sure what to focus on – the catchy beat, the words that had apparently been penned for him. But that’s all he had to hold onto, the song, the lyrics, and the eyes that stared back at him pained, but hopeful as he sang his heart out, expressing the regret of wasting time on someone they couldn’t have, the hypocrisy and stupidity of love, the hate he had for himself for even writing the song, “one more fucking love song” for the person he can’t get his mind off, but so desperately needs to forget. Blake’s heart lodged in his throat.

            As the song ended (it was short, Blake assumed it wasn’t done, and that Adam had just come up with it maybe a few days, a few hours ago even), Adam didn’t move, just stared at his guitar as though he had no idea where the song had come from. Blake sat, motionless, itching to grab the whiskey bottle and drink it dry; God knows he needed it right now. As Adam’s face tentatively tipped upwards, trying to catch a glimpse of Blake’s expression, Blake couldn’t help but utter the only word on his mind.

            “Why?”

            Adam sighed, clutching the guitar to his chest as though shielding himself from Blake. Quietly he replied, “Have you met you?”

            Blake huffed, the breath he’d been holding finally escaping.

“The truth is, Miranda called me when she was in town. She wanted to know what was going on between us. No seriously,” Adam said, holding up a hand to stop Blake’s protests. “She doesn’t want to be in the way. She really does care about you, buddy. She said there was something going on with you, like you were always somewhere else when you were together. She’s not happy, but she wants you to be. That’s when I realized…well…

“But…you’re not-“

            “It doesn’t matter what I am or what I thought I was, the fact is that…I like you,” Adam said, finally daring to make eye contact with Blake. “Haven’t you ever met someone who you thought you would never be attracted to, guy or girl, but once you got to know them, you realized how special they were?”

            Blake surveyed Adam, his t-shirt clinging to his too-skinny frame, a mess of colorful graffiti covering strong, muscled arms, skinny jeans highlighting every slight dip and curve in his body. Then he thought back to their first meeting, to the time they’d spent together at after parties and press meetings and nights just like this one where all Blake had been able to do was stare at Adam and think about his gorgeous eyes, telling himself that it was the Bacardi talking.

            “Yeah,” he said, his voice dry. “I think I have.”

            Adam’s chest swelled, the tiniest hint of happiness or panic or both covering his face. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in. I’m gonna go.” Adam stood, packing away his guitar and basically trying to get out the door as quickly as he could. "I’m sorry, man, I really am, but you know me. I have to be honest. Especially with you.”

            Blake sighed. All he wanted was one day where he didn’t feel like he had to sigh to vent his frustrations out into the world; one small exhale of breath every time he couldn’t figure out what to do with his mess of a life. “I know. Thanks.”

            Adam paused, turning back just for a second to look at Blake one more time. “Just…promise me you’ll think about the song, and what I said.” And then he was gone.

            Blake leaned forward, his head resting in his hands. Looking up, staring through the whiskey bottle and its distorted, amber coloring of the door Adam had just walked through, he jumped up and raced to the front door just as Adam was pulling it open.

            “Adam!” Blake stood, feeling all at once too big and too small, in the hallway, looking straight into Adam’s wide, puppy dog eyes (how the fuck does he do that? Jackass.). Adam had been honest with him; he was damn well going to return the favor. 

            “I don’t need to think about it.”

            Adam’s face fell, not sure what he meant. It wasn’t until Blake walked straight towards him, took the guitar out of his hands and out of harms way, cupped his face and kissed his best friend gently, fully, on the lips, that he understood.

            It was gentle at first, but the need and want and utter realization of “Oh my dear god yes” changed things quickly, Blake pressing his solid body against Adam’s slight, but strong, one, Adam falling back against the door frame as he tried to hold himself up. The kiss deepened, and Blake felt Adam’s tongue begging for entrance. Blake found that kissing Adam was a lot like whiskey; hot and burning, too much and never enough. Blake moaned under the strength of it, moving his hands further down Adam’s body to grasp at clothing, skin, anything tangible that he could just feel to make sure this was really happening. His hands moved further down, down, and, though he actually couldn’t believe it, there he was, cupping Adam’s ass, his jeans leaving little to the imagination. Adam moaned against Blake’s lips, surging his hips forward, and oh my god, Adam was hard, and so was Blake, and the thought of being so close to perfection completely overwhelmed them.

            Pulling back from the kiss, Blake pressed his forehead against Adam’s, both of them breathless, still in the _need need need, want want want_ stage. Blake smiled, his breathing transitioning into a chuckle, dark and deep.

            “If happy ever after did exist?”

            Adam smiled, and leaned in to peck Blake’s lips, echoing his lyrics. “I would still be holding you like this.”

            Blake smiled, diving back in to taste Adam, teasing him with single pecks. Reaching down to grasp Adam’s hands in his own, he suddenly has an idea, and holds Adam’s hands up, intertwined in his own, against the heavy wooden door. Dark oceans of blue met deep brown as Blake whispered, “What do you want?”

            Adam swallowed, his chest constricting and eyes closing as he lost himself in the moment. Blake was so large, but Adam was no shrimp, and he could play dirty too. He fit so well against Blake, the perfect height and size to lose himself in Blake’s arms, able to invade and explore Blake as he did now, running his lips and tongue up Blake’s neck. As Blake shivered and moaned, he heard Adam whisper back, just as darkly, just as deeply, “Fuck me.”

            With one last grin, Blake pressed his hips against Adam’s as he kissed him, finally feeling like he was home.


End file.
